


Open Your Eyes, You Can Fly

by china_shop



Series: Caffrey/Jones future!fic [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Dating, Fic, First Time, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-21
Updated: 2011-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-19 16:36:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The FBI had cut Caffrey loose a couple of months ago, and he was a free agent, but he still hung around a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One step, then the next (and I didn't see it coming)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jumpuphigh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumpuphigh/gifts), [joiedumonde](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=joiedumonde), [prudence_dearly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prudence_dearly/gifts).



> Many many thanks to mergatrude and dragonfly for beta.

The new probie, Pearson, was watching the surveillance monitors and talking on the phone with his girlfriend when someone knocked shave-and-a-haircut on the backdoor of the van. No guesses who, and Clinton had to rip off his headphones and scramble past Pearson to let Caffrey in before the overdressed guy in the hat standing outside a municipal utility van drew the attention of their suspect, Theodore Messines, or any of his employees in the real estate office across the street. Clinton stumbled over a taped-down cable on his way, and he had to steady himself against the wall, nearly dislodging the satellite link. All these years, and he still hated the van: it was small and cramped and boring, it smelled bad and you couldn't check personal email when you were on surveillance duty in case you missed something. No one wanted to admit to Peter Burke that the suspect had slipped by them while they were looking at lolcats.

Clinton opened the door, Caffrey held up a tray of takeout coffee and a bulging paper bag that smelled of pastries, and Clinton muttered, "Get in here," and all but hauled him inside.

The FBI had cut Caffrey loose a couple of months ago, and he was a free agent, but he still hung around a lot, dropping into the office to talk to Peter or lending his expertise at briefings. And he seemed to have developed an uncanny talent for zeroing in on the whereabouts of the van—to an extent where Clinton had wondered aloud if he'd GPSed the vehicle, but Peter had said no, it was just Neal being Neal. "Go easy on him," Peter said. "He's still getting used to being off the leash."

So Clinton waved Caffrey toward the spare chair and returned to his post, pulling his headphones into place but putting one earpiece back so he could hold a conversation while he listened for any key phrases.

Neal handed him a coffee cup that smelled fragrant and delicious, and stretched his legs out in front of him, cracking the lid on his own cup. "How's it going?"

"The usual," said Clinton. "No movement, but it's just a matter of time."

"Same old story." Neal glanced at Pearson—who was so deep in plans to meet the in-laws that he barely seemed to have noticed Neal's presence—and raised his eyebrows at Clinton. "New guy?"

"Yeah," said Clinton. "He'll learn. At least he doesn't knock on the van door in broad daylight."

"Ouch," said Neal, giving him a wounded look that lasted all of two seconds. He pulled an apple Danish out of the paper bag and threw the bag to Clinton, who caught it neatly.

"Of course, he doesn't bring refreshments either." Clinton dug a second Danish out of the bag and waved the third under Pearson's nose, but Pearson shook his head.

"Atkins diet," he mouthed, eyes still on the screen in front of him. Clinton motioned him to get off the phone, and Pearson held up a finger and added silently, "One minute." Then he said into the phone, "You know, baby, the decision doesn't have to be made today. Can't we talk about this tonight?"

Clinton rolled his eyes and pulled a face at Neal. "Maybe he'll learn," he amended. Of course, he could pull rank and tell Pearson to get his head out of his ass and into the game, or even grab the phone off him and hang up on his behalf, but Pearson was keeping his eyes on the monitors like he was supposed to, and Clinton was a believer in observing people. In sitting back and finding out what they were made of before he waded in, guns blazing.

Plus, if they were going to have an out-and-out incident, he'd prefer to wait until Peter got back from Philadelphia later that week, so Pearson wouldn't think Clinton was throwing his weight around in Peter's absence.

Neal was flicking through the case file Clinton had brought with them for reference, pausing to read some pages and leafing past others without stopping. Sometimes Clinton wished he could download the entire contents of Caffrey's head into a computer: there'd be some alarming stuff in there, no doubt, along with a fine appreciation for incomprehensible art, a post-doctorate equivalent in flirting, and information on the closest place to get great coffee for any given set of coordinates in Manhattan. But there'd also be a hell of a lot of useful insights into criminal behavior, protocols and MOs, not to mention scams, security systems and encyclopedic general knowledge.

Clinton watched him going over the file, studiedly casual and razor-sharp intelligent, and wondered what it was like to be Neal Caffrey. Did he enjoy the attention his good looks inevitably attracted? Did it feel good to be the smartest guy in the room, on average, or was it lonely? Was that why he didn't seem to date much? At least he had the little guy to keep him company, and he hadn't completely severed ties with the White Collar team.

Neal glanced up and caught him looking, and for a second, something sparked in his eyes. Something Clinton couldn't pin down, but whatever it was, it made Clinton feel self-conscious, suddenly aware of the way he was slouched in his seat and glad he was wearing his new tie. Then it was gone.

"I should get going," said Neal. "Places to be." He closed the file and tossed it back on the narrow counter next to Clinton's laptop. "Ten to one, Messines has a safety deposit box in a bank somewhere nearby. You should check it out."

Clinton sighed, half relieved to make progress on the case, half exasperated. "How the hell did you get that from the case file?"

"Witness statement number five. It's the only explanation that makes sense." Neal stood up and went to the door. "Oh, and hey, you want to come to Peter and Elizabeth's for dinner this Friday? Mozzie and I have a standing date there, first Friday of the month."

"I—" Clinton blinked. He knew about Neal's monthly dinners with the Burkes. They weren't a secret. But an invitation to attend one of them was startling, especially coming from Neal rather than Peter. "Uh, sure."

"Great." Neal looked pleased. "Seven o'clock. See you then." He let himself out of the van and shut the door behind him.

Still off-balance, Clinton picked up the file and reread the fifth witness statement with new eyes. Caffrey was right, of course. "Well, I'll be damned."

 

*

 

"That was an incredible meal, Mrs. Burke," said Clinton from his place on the couch. Peter and his wife were in armchairs, and Neal was sprawled beside Clinton—there was no other word for it—after having over-indulged in the spicy chicken dish like the rest of them. His blue shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled up.

"Elizabeth," she said. "And I can't take credit for the food—that was one of Mozzie's masterpieces."

Clinton looked to the dining table, where the little guy and a friend of Elizabeth's called Yvonne were sitting, animatedly comparing notes on Agatha Christie novels. "Really?"

"Why do you think we keep inviting him back?" said Peter, relaxed and good humored in a way he rarely was at work.

"He has hidden depths," said Neal. "Many hidden depths. Me, I can only make soup and steak."

"Pot roast," said Peter. "Spaghetti Bolognese, French toast."

"Don't sell yourself short," said Elizabeth. "Your rum toffee dessert is to die for." She got up and patted his shoulder on the way to the kitchen, and Clinton marveled at how affectionate they still were with each other after nearly fifteen years of marriage.

Neal was watching them too, with warmth in his eyes. Clinton guessed he didn't have much in the way of real family and that Peter and Elizabeth offered a reliable haven which meant a lot to him. But when he turned to Clinton, the warmth didn't lessen, so maybe it was just the effect of good food and wine.

"How about you, Jones?" he said. "You cook?"

"The last time I made soup, you could have eaten it with a fork," said Clinton, with a wry smile. Elizabeth came back with a bottle and topped up their wine glasses. "Thanks. I kept adding water, but it didn't seem to help, and the saucepan kept getting fuller and fuller."

"Oh, honey, remember that soup we had in Charlotte?" Elizabeth curled up in her seat. "It was cold _and_ burned."

"I think that was one of the worst meals I ever ate," said Peter, and that set Neal off, clearly determined to out-do him in the suffering-via-food stakes and entertain them all in the process. Clinton mostly sat back and listened, and wondered again what it was like to be Neal Caffrey. This evening painted a very different picture from his apparently aimless appearances in the surveillance van: here, he was surrounded by friends who cared about him. Clinton thought about his own friends, many of them busy with young families, a few who'd moved out of state for various reasons. This here didn't seem such a bad life after all.

 

*

 

Clinton gave Neal a ride home around eleven-thirty. "Thanks for the invite. It was a good evening."

"You should come again," said Neal. "Clinton Jones. What do your friends call you?"

Clinton glanced across at him. Neal had drunk a couple more glasses of wine than him, but it didn't show. He was relaxed but alert, and it didn't sound like he was teasing Clinton for his presidential name. "Clint."

"Clint," said Neal, as if he were tasting the name, and Clinton felt a curl low in his belly, physical awareness, completely unexpected but so intense that it almost wasn't a surprise when Neal added, "Have you ever kissed another guy?"

Clinton forced himself to keep his eyes on the road and not look at Neal's mouth. "What is this, a Katy Perry song?"

Neal frowned. "Who?"

"Never mind," said Clinton. "So—this was a date?" He thought back over the evening. It made sense, in a way, but it was unsettling to think that the others knew—especially Peter. That Peter thought he was gay, when he wasn't. Or probably wasn't. He was starting to think he didn't know what he was.

Neal was doing that thing he did, where he acted deliberately casual. "Is that okay?"

"Why me?" They came off the bridge and Clinton headed uptown to Caffrey's place.

"I have excellent taste," said Neal, smoothly charming. Clinton sent him a withering look, and he grinned, real this time. "I like you. I trust you."

Trust. Clinton had a hunch that wasn't just about the gay thing—though the risks of coming on to a guy were real, even in New York. Being Neal Caffrey meant carrying around a hell of a lot of history, not all of it palatable to the average man in the street. Maybe it was easier to want someone who already knew it all, who didn't need a careful explanation. Clinton could sympathize with that—it wasn't easy explaining his job to outsiders either.

But there was something a little too—intense about this. It cast all those coffee-and-pastry visits in a new light. Did Caffrey know too much about him? Did he have _him_ under surveillance? "What makes you think I'm available?"

Neal raised his eyebrows, as if he hadn't considered the alternative. "Wishful thinking," he said. "Are you?"

Clinton turned into Riverside Drive. "Yeah, but I have to tell you, I haven't really thought about it. About you like that."

"Oh." Neal's face went blank, but Clinton had known him long enough to see the disappointment. "Well, think about it. You don't have to decide anything tonight."

"Okay." They pulled up outside Neal's place. Clinton kept the engine running. "I'll think about it."

"Okay, well—" Neal gave him a lopsided smile. "See you. Clint."

"Yeah, see you."

Neal unfastened his seatbelt and reached for the door handle, and Clinton knew he should let him go. A gay relationship with a convicted con artist wasn't the kind of thing you should jump into, feet first, without thinking it through, especially when you worked for the FBI. But damn, there was something special about Caffrey, something fascinating and rare, and finding out that Caffrey wanted him—

"Neal. Wait." Clinton put his hand on Neal's arm to stop him, and Neal turned back, and then they were kissing, they were _kissing_ , Neal's mouth on his, sweet and dark, tasting faintly of coffee. Clinton touched the stubbled line of his jaw, threaded fingers into his hair, parting his lips and awash with desire, and how in God's name had he not known this about himself, about Neal. _How had he not known?_ "Oh man."

Neal pulled away, breathing hard. His hand was splayed on Clinton's chest, and his eyes were dark and hopeful, making Clinton's pulse thunder in his ears. But it was too soon to answer that hope, whatever it signified. Clinton leaned in and pressed his mouth to Neal's, quick and simple, to show he wasn't freaking out. Then he sat back. "I need to take this slow."

"Slow," said Neal. "You got it." His voice was rough, a little breathless, which was definitely good for the ego, and his smile was real. "I can do slow."

The double entendre was subtle, but it was there, and it made Clinton shiver in anticipation and roll his eyes all at once. "Incorrigible, Caffrey. You are shameless."

Neal grinned. "Shame is overrated." He put his hand on the door handle and looked at Clinton, his expression turning serious. "So, I'll see you?"

"Yeah," said Clinton. "You'll see me." He watched as Neal left the car and ran up June's front steps to the door, pulling his key from his pocket as he went. He turned to wave before going inside, and Clinton sat there, car still idling, thinking about the evening and the kiss—he could still feel that kiss, still taste it—and let his future unfold out in front of him, full of mystery and humor, complexity and passion.


	2. Uncharted

After dinner at the Burkes' and that kiss in the car, Clinton didn't see Neal for a few days, but they exchanged text messages, maybe five or six a day—questions, random observations and reportage. It was like Twitter only private and without the extraneous noise, and Clinton appreciated Neal giving him space to settle into the idea of getting romantic.

It was different from anything else he'd done on a number of levels. With women, there was a formula and Clinton knew the etiquette. Everyone was different, sure, but he'd never gone wrong bringing a woman flowers or complimenting her on her jewelry. With Neal, Clinton didn't know what to do, so he replied to the texts and, a couple of times, initiated an exchange, and waited to see what would happen.

By Tuesday morning, waiting was driving him nuts. Neal hadn't been around the office, and Clinton hadn't been in the van, and the whole affair was seeming more and more of a bad idea, but somehow that didn't stop him from wanting to see Neal. Maybe kiss him again. His mouth went dry when he thought about it. Arranging dates by text was both clumsy and tacky, in Clinton's book, so he went outside where Diana and the rest of the team couldn't overhear, and he called Neal. "Hey."

"Hi," said Neal, warm in his ear. "Hey. How's it going?"

"It's good." Clinton put his free hand in his pocket and toyed with the small handful of spare change there. "You?"

"Can't complain." Neal sounded distracted and there were voices in the background. "Hang on a minute."

There were footsteps and the sounds went muffled, while Clinton stared up at the overcast sky. It'd been years since he'd smoked, but now he wished he hadn't quit. Not that he was nervous about talking to Neal, exactly. It was just weird: they'd been colleagues for years, and Clinton had outranked him since day one, but it hadn't always felt like it, and anyway, this here was a completely different playing field.

Neal came back on the line, and it sounded quieter there now, like he was alone. "What's up?"

"Nothing." Clinton looked around to make sure no one was listening. "I just—you know, I figured, you want to get together sometime and hang out?"

"Yeah," said Neal quickly. "I was going to call you tonight, actually. What are you doing tomorrow?"

"Working," said Clinton, shaking his head. "We're not all part-time consultants with mysterious independent incomes, you know. Some of us have to earn a living." It came out sharper than he intended.

"Ouch," said Neal, mildly. "I meant tomorrow evening."

"Oh, right. Sorry." Clinton kicked gently at the paving stones in front of him. "I guess I don't really know how this works, and it's making me kind of—it's disconcerting."

"It's okay," said Neal. "It works however you want it to. How about dinner and a movie?"

That sounded so normal, Clinton almost laughed. Neal Caffrey in a movie theater. But the idea of going on a date in public, of being visibly gay when he hadn't really got used to the idea yet, as applied to himself—He felt self-conscious just thinking about it. "Uh, maybe, you want to come over to my place and watch a DVD?"

There was a tiny hesitation before Neal answered, as if that had taken him by surprise. "Yeah, sure."

"I mean, we're still taking it slow, okay," said Clinton, quickly. "The DVD wasn't a euphemism."

"Got it," said Neal.

Clinton could hear the smile in voice. It made him smile too, gave him a warm buzz under his skin, but he figured he might as well get some of the explaining out of the way now, while they were on the subject. "It's just—listen, I got no problem with people being gay. Seriously, no problem at all. I'm just not really used to the idea of it for me. Yet. So—"

"It's fine, Clint. Really," said Neal. "A nice relaxed evening in sounds good. No expectations. You want me to bring anything?"

"I'll pick up some Chinese food." Clinton had been through enough stakeouts with Neal that he knew his favorites. It was strange to think all the information he'd accumulated over the years was finding a new application, but it was reassuring too. Dating a guy might be uncharted territory, but Neal was familiar, at least in some ways. "See you at seven?"

"Yeah," said Neal. "See you then."

 

*

 

When Clinton got back inside, Peter was standing by Diana's desk, telling her about the case in Philadelphia. "—was wearing this crazy get-up like a Halloween costume," he said. "When Cruz ripped the mask off, I was positive he was going to tell her, 'I'd have got away with it if it weren't for you meddling kids!'"

Diana laughed. "Lauren would make a pretty good Velma, but I can't really see you as Fred or Shaggy."

Clinton went over and caught Peter's eye. "Can I have a word?"

Peter nodded, told Diana to start the paperwork on a search warrant for the new insurance fraud case, and led the way upstairs. Clinton closed the door after him, and tried not to feel like a kid who'd been sent to the principal's office. Full disclosure was surely the safest way to proceed here. Clinton didn't know for sure how much Neal had told Peter, but there was a good chance Peter already knew the gist of it.

Peter sat down at his desk and glanced at some papers. When Clinton didn't say anything, he looked up. "What's going on?"

"Caffrey and I—" Clinton sat down and pursed his lips, trying to find a way to say it that didn't sound awkward. "We have a date tomorrow night. I thought you should know, seeing as he used to be one of our CIs."

Peter nodded absently, and then did an almost comical double take. "Okay," he said, visibly clamping down on his surprise. "Well, Neal's not officially connected with the Bureau anymore, and he's legit now. I don't see any problem. Good for you."

He looked at Clinton expectantly, so Clinton cast around for something to add. "I didn't know if he already told you."

That made Peter smile. "He's turned discretion into an art form—you should know that as well as anyone." He leaned back in his chair. "I have to admit, El was wondering after he brought you to dinner on Friday but, well, I didn't think he was your type."

"I didn't know either," said Clinton. He didn't want Peter to think he'd been in the closet all this time, that his occasional mentions of dates with women had been lies to cover up a secret. "Never really thought about it till he said something when I was driving him home on Friday. If I had, I would have told you."

Peter relaxed. It was a subtle shift, but it made Clinton feel more comfortable too, so he went on.

"I know you're cool about it. Diana's proof of that. And I didn't want to get halfway down that road and find myself having to lie, so—" He spread his hands. Here he was.

"You're a good guy, Jones." Peter's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Don't let Neal take advantage of you."

Clinton grinned and tried to ignore the way his face heated up. "I'm watching my step." He stretched out his neck and caught Peter's curious gaze, and had a flash of concern. Peter was more than just his boss; he was Neal's friend, practically his family. What if Neal, master of discretion, didn't want Peter to know? Too late now. And what if Peter was protective of his ex-partner? Clinton figured he should make sure Peter's expectations weren't too high. "I don't know if it's going to work out."

"No one ever does," said Peter, apparently untroubled. "There's only one way to find out. El would say it's a leap of faith."

The platitude was strangely comforting. "Yeah."

"Are you going to tell Diana?" asked Peter, deadpan.

Clinton pulled a face. Diana would give him hell, not so much for the guy thing as for the fact that the guy was Neal Caffrey. Peter knew it too. Besides, Diana had earned her gay credentials over years; it was part of who she was. Clinton was still figuring this stuff out. "Not yet."

"I'm sure she'll appreciate it, whenever you're ready," Peter told him. "I'm glad you felt you could talk to me." It was obvious he meant it.

"Of course," said Clinton, getting up to go. "I should get back to work."

"Yeah." Peter started to turn to his computer. "Oh, and Jones? It was good to see you for dinner on Friday. You're welcome back, anytime."

 

*

 

When Clinton got back to his desk, he texted Neal: _I told Peter about tomorrow night. Hope that's okay._

He stared blindly at a bunch of financial records from a stockbrokerage in Pittsburgh, trying to focus but mostly waiting for Neal's reply. Hoping he hadn't screwed up. He was pretty sure Peter hadn't been surprised by Neal's being gay, but that didn't mean Neal had told him, or that Neal wanted Peter to know about the date.

Twenty seconds later, his phone rang. "Yeah?"

"You told Peter," said Neal. He sounded amused, not pissed. "What did he say?"

"He told me I shouldn't let you take advantage of me," said Clinton, breathing freely again.

Neal laughed. "Peter Burke, always ready with a warning when you need one. Whose side is he on, anyway?"

"I think he's on both of our sides," said Clinton, only realizing after he said it how true it was. It was a good feeling. "Hey, listen, I've got to go. For some reason, I haven't got much work done today. I'll see you tomorrow."

"At seven," said Neal. "Looking forward to it."

"Me too," said Clinton. "Really."

After Neal hung up, Clinton sat turning his phone over in his hand. The messaging function was filling up with texts he didn't want to delete, and the light baritone of Neal's voice in his ear was definitely doing things for him. He'd told Peter he didn't know if it was going to work out, and that was still true, but damn, he was really starting to hope it would. If it was a leap of faith, like Elizabeth said, Clinton had the feeling he was already in midair.


	3. Best laid plans that kind of suck

Clinton got home that night around seven and was walking down the hallway to his apartment when his neighbor Louisa barged out of her place and nearly bowled him over. The DVDs he was carrying clattered to the floor.

"Damn, sorry!" Louisa dropped her gym bag and crouched down to help gather the plastic cases together. "Movie night with the boys, huh?"

"Something like that." Clinton took _The Last Boy Scout_ and the 2013 remake of _The Matrix_ from her and stacked them on the others. It was too late to order disks from Netflix so, faced with the multitude of options in his local Blockbuster and at a loss to think what Neal might like, he'd gone for half a dozen recent and classic action flicks. If none of those worked out, they could fall back on his own DVD collection, but those were mostly sports movies and old sci-fi shows.

Louisa was grinning up at him. "Anyone I should meet?"

Louisa always had an eye out for a potential prospect. She and Clinton had even gone for a drink once, shortly after Clinton moved into the building, but half an hour in, she'd said, "Sorry, Clint, this is just too freaky. You remind me of my little brother." Clinton hadn't been devastated—Louisa was more alternative than he was really comfortable with—and they'd been in the friend zone ever since, with her angling to meet his buddies on the increasingly rare occasions they came over.

"I could gatecrash," she added now. "When I get back from the gym."

"No, he's—" Clinton stopped, then figured what the hell. She'd confided in him over the years; he could tell her this. "It's kind of a date."

She blinked up at him. "Wait—with a guy?"

"Yeah, but—" Clinton shifted his weight, regretting having said anything. "Low key, you know? Chinese takeout and a movie. Nothing too—"

"Serious." Louisa tilted her head and studied him thoughtfully, and he tried not to squirm. She was obviously seeing him in light of this new information, and it was embarrassing and a little scary. If things didn't work out with Neal, Clinton was going to have to go around telling people he'd made a mistake, when he could have just kept his mouth shut in the first place. Louisa pushed her dreads off her face. "This is your first date with a guy, isn't it?"

"Yeah," said Clinton. "I don't even know if—" He thought about Neal, about the kiss in the car and the texts and phone calls, and bit off the rest of that sentence. "Yeah."

Louisa nodded. "Don't get Chinese food."

Clinton stopped trying to think up an excuse to retreat into his apartment and frowned. "What? Why not?"

"Would you ever get takeout for a first date with a girl?" She gave him a stern look. "Takeout says two things: one, that you're not treating the person with the respect they deserve, and two, in this case that you have an attitude problem about being with a guy." She tapped her long, yellow-painted fingernails against his DVDs. "I mean, look at these, Clint! _Transformers_ , seriously? Could you get any more mainstream macho? You think this guy wants to sit there with you, watching the hero get the girl?"

"It's a classic," said Clinton, pushing her hand away. He hadn't actually seen it, but there'd been a dozen copies on the Blockbuster shelves, most of them rented, so it must have something going for it.

"It's terrible." Louisa shook her head and scrunched up her face. "I know, I know, it's none of my business. But, I mean—do you even like this guy?"

Damn, she didn't know when to quit. They should bring her into the FBI to interrogate suspects; she could be their new secret weapon.

"Well?" She stared him down.

Clinton looked away and nodded. "Yeah."

"And is he into big dumb explosion movies?" She held up her hands. "You know what? That doesn't even matter. Just, Clint, do yourself a favor and don't pretend this isn't a big deal. It's not a movie night; it's a date."

Clinton let his head fall back and closed his eyes against the glare of the LED array on the ceiling. He sighed. "You know, I really hate it when you're right."

"I know you do, Agent Jones." She picked up her gym bag and gave him a sympathetic pat on the arm. "And yet, it keeps happening, over and over."

"And over and over," said Clinton, stepping back. "Okay, fine, you've convinced me. Now go, exercise."

He went into his apartment, switched on the light and stood in the middle of his small living room, looking at the DVDs in his hand and the old posters on his walls. Louisa was right. Clinton had been so busy trying to keep it casual that he'd frozen and gone for the easy choices—which were completely wrong. Lesson one: Neal wasn't mainstream and neither, really, was Clinton.

Time to scrap this whole plan and start again. Clinton was a smart guy, and he had twenty-four hours to figure this out. He'd think of something.


	4. Acceleration

When Neal's knock sounded the next night—the same shave-and-a-haircut that he used on the door of the van—Clinton took a last look around his apartment to make sure he hadn't over-compensated. He'd covered his plain old couch with a nice blanket and brought in the lamps from the bedroom. The coffee table was cleared of magazines and clutter, and he'd closed the doors on the wooden cabinet that housed his TV. His music collection was a mess and he didn't have any classical, so he'd settled for a mixed jazz CD his mother had given him for Christmas a couple of years earlier. It was cozy without being overtly romantic, and he hoped he'd struck the right balance.

He wiped his palms on his pants and opened the door. "Hi, come on in."

"Hi." Neal turned to face him as he entered. He was wearing a burgundy shirt and black slacks, carrying a bottle of wine and a six-pack of beer, and he looked artfully casual, as if he'd put himself together the same way Clinton had arranged the room. "It's good to see you."

Clinton's stomach flipped. His gaze was drawn to Neal's mouth, but it was too soon in the evening for kissing, he wasn't ready for that even if Neal was, so he touched Neal's arm instead, just below the shoulder. "You too."

Neal smiled, a little quirk of his lips that said he could tell exactly what Clinton was thinking. Maybe that should have made Clinton feel vulnerable, but instead it was reassuring: there was no point pretending anything, if Neal could read him that easily.

Neal looked past him at the rest of the room, the sushi spread on the coffee table and the expensive sake Clinton had bought to go with it. His eyebrows went up. "Change of plans?"

"Is that okay?" Clinton took the beer and wine from him and put them on the sideboard.

"You're full of surprises." Neal turned to him, and his smile was real now and sweet. "Thank you."

Clinton led him to the couch. "We can watch a movie later, if you want, or we could just, you know, talk."

Neal sat down beside him. "I'm good with talking."

"Yeah, I know." Clinton rolled his eyes and grinned, and felt himself relax. Damn, Caffrey was good at this. Neal. Neal was good at this—at putting people at their ease.

Neal grinned back. "Contrary to popular belief, I'm a pretty good listener too." He surveyed the sushi—still fresh, since Clinton had picked it up less than twenty minutes earlier—helped himself to a piece with salmon and avocado, wielding chopsticks as easily as most people would use a fork. "How are things at the office?"

Clinton started filling him in on the latest cases, aware that they were sitting close, their knees brushing whenever one of them leaned forward to get food. Every time they did, it sent a shiver of electricity up Clinton's thigh. He poured sake, and they drank, and Neal asked questions, even about the Medicare scam, though Clinton knew how much those kinds of cases bored him. It was easy, talking about work—something they had in common, not too personal. But after a while, Clinton figured maybe they should get back to the date aspect of the date. "What about you? What are you doing with yourself, now you're your own man again?"

Something flickered across Neal's face, and for a second Clinton thought he was going to evade the question, but then he shrugged. "I've started a small import business. Wines, mostly from France, the Mediterranean and New Zealand."

There was something dismissive about the way he said it, and an import business could easily be a cover for illegal activity. Clinton raised his eyebrows before he could think better of it. "Imports, huh?"

Neal shook his head against the implied accusation. "It's all legal and aboveboard, I swear. I supply Elizabeth's company and a few boutique stores in the city."

"Wow." Clinton elbowed him gently to show he was teasing. "Neal Caffrey making an honest living. Who'd have thought." Neal's answering smile was restrained, and Clinton studied him for a moment. "Does it bug you, people suspecting the worst of you all the time?"

"I earned it," said Neal, and that there was classic Caffrey evasion, but then his shoulders twitched and he added, without looking up from the remains of the sushi, "It's not particularly glamorous after being an internationally renowned art thief."

"Alleged," said Clinton, helpfully.

Neal's smile softened. "Alleged. Yeah."

"You ever miss it? Crime, I mean." It seemed like a brutal, stressful life on the run as far as Clinton could tell, but then, he only ever saw criminals who were in the FBI's sights. The life must have something going for it, since so many seemed to head that way.

Neal's shrug was looser this time. "I miss the challenge, the adrenalin rush—"

He'd got those from his work with the FBI too. Clinton filled in the blanks. "The notoriety?"

"Sometimes." Neal dropped his head, half hiding his grin and looking so pretty—or no, he looked _handsome_ —it took Clinton's breath away.

Clinton dropped his gaze back to the mostly empty sushi plates, trying not to ask _why me?_ again. He could feel Neal's gaze on him. He swallowed. "Businessman's a step up from CI."

"Everything is a step up from CI," said Neal. "Don't get me wrong—working for the Bureau had its moments, but the radius seriously cramped my style, and I really don't miss people pulling guns on me on a weekly basis." As he said it, he slowly, casually reached for Clinton's hand. His thumb was pale against Clinton's knuckles, and Clinton let him thread their fingers together so they were sitting there holding hands. It was an innocent gesture, something kids did—but it focused all of Clinton's attention on him, on the heat of Neal's hand, the closeness of his body. It made Clinton's blood race in his veins so he almost didn't hear what Neal said next. "What about you? Who were you before the White Collar unit consumed your every waking moment?"

The question was casual, but there was a slight rough edge to it; Clinton wasn't the only one affected by the contact. "Uh, you know." He cleared his throat. "Played some football in college, chaired the debate team."

"An all-rounder," said Neal.

"Yeah." Clinton shifted slightly, an inch or two closer, so their legs were pressed firmly together. "Spent a few years working for IBM. Got married too young, divorced by twenty-five. That was when I decided to go to Quantico, get a fresh start."

Neal's thumb, which had been smoothing back and forth across the side of Clinton's hand, stilled at this revelation, but after a second or two, it resumed its hypnotic drift. "I didn't know that. Any kids?"

"Hell, no," said Clinton, a little too emphatically. It was probably the sake. Without taking his hand from Neal's, he sat forward and poured them each another shot, careful not to spill any. He drank his fast, sent Neal a sideways smile and finished the thought. "I haven't heard from her in years, not since she remarried. It was a lifetime ago, you know?"

"It's strange how many lifetimes you can fit into a lifetime," said Neal, nodding, watching him, and Clinton knew that he got it. Neal understood that you could accept the person you'd become, seal off your past and move on. It wasn't about denying who you were, and it didn't necessarily make you cold or faithless; it was just life.

Clinton looked down at their entwined hands. "When did you know you were gay?"

"Bi," said Neal.

Bisexual. The only time Clinton could remember encountering the concept of bisexual men was in AIDS statistics, but he put that firmly out of his mind. It made sense for Neal, and it explained his history with Kate Moreau. "Okay, bi."

"Probably since the first time someone told me it wasn't allowed," said Neal, with a grin.

That stung. Was dating men just a rebellion for Neal, another chance to break the rules? If so, Clinton had made a big mistake, and he should step back now. But it was hard to think of calling it quits and going back to normal. The old normal seemed dull and empty, compared to this. Maybe he'd misunderstood. "This is about forbidden fruit?"

"No." Neal drained his glass and put it down. He turned his gaze on Clinton, and it felt warm and intimate and specific—just for him. "It started that way, but that was a different lifetime. Not anymore."

"Okay," said Clinton, relieved, letting his defenses fall away. "Okay."

"So." Neal trailed a finger up the inside of Clinton's wrist, and Clinton had to bite his lip against the delicate, feathery sensation. "You want to make out?"

Clinton burst out laughing. "That's your line?" Neal grinned back, unabashed, and Clinton succumbed utterly. "Come here," he said, hooking two fingers in the vee of Neal's shirt and pulling him close. They were both still smiling when their lips met, but a second later Clinton forgot the joke and gave himself up to Neal's mouth.

Neal tasted of sake, his mouth hot and generous, and Clinton could barely breathe. It had been five long days since their kiss in the car, and he'd been thinking about it constantly, wondering if it had been a fluke, a unique combination of circumstances that had temporarily subverted his previously unquestioned heterosexuality. But oh man, if that had been an aberration, he was still caught in its current and in serious danger of being swept away. His fingers were still hooked in Neal's shirt, knuckles brushing Neal's chest, and Clinton fumbled with the top few buttons, wanting to get his hands on him, partly to test himself, but mostly just to feel Neal's body against his.

When he got his hand in, spread across Neal's chest, Neal groaned and surged forward, half-straddling Clinton's lap and kissing him deeper, sliding his tongue between Clinton's lips. It could have been freaky or unnerving, doing this with a guy, but the guy was Neal, and Clinton knew him and wanted him. God, he hadn't thought they'd have sex tonight, hadn't let himself think about it, really, but he _wanted_ to. So much for taking it slow.

Neal slid his hand down the neck of Clinton's shirt and palmed his back, making Clinton gasp and pull him closer. He wanted skin on skin, Neal's bare chest against his—he needed it. He started helping Neal off with his shirt, and Neal was returning the favor, pulling Clinton's white cotton shirt out of his pants and starting to tug it up. He got about halfway and paused, pulling back and looking at Clinton with eyes blurred by desire. "Is this okay?"

His lips were red from kissing, his pupils huge. Clinton wanted him desperately. "Yeah," he said. "It's good."

"Thank God," said Neal. He sat back and stripped his own shirt over his head, and Clinton copied him, and when they came back together, there was nothing between them, nothing to stop their hands and mouths. It was a feast, an orgy of sensation, and Clinton felt drunk on it, tight with pleasure and desire, and the certainty that Neal wanted him too.

He pushed Neal sideways so they could stretch out on the couch, Clinton over Neal, but one of their feet must have hooked around the coffee table leg, because there was a scraping noise and a crash, and when Clinton blinked his eyes open, the coffee table was askew and the floor was covered in sake and broken wasabi-smeared plates. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath while lust warred with practicality, but Neal was already sitting up. "Oops."

"Yeah." Clinton shook his head, trying to clear it so he could think. "Uh. Damn."

Neal gave him an amused look, which somehow managed to be incredibly sexy too, and Clinton cupped his cheek and kissed him hard, before forcing himself to get a dustpan and a cloth from the kitchen and clean up the mess before the sake ruined the finish on the hardwood floor.

Neal gathered together the broken crockery and used chopsticks into a pile on the coffee table, and swept the shards into the dustpan. They both straightened up at the same time and looked at each other, and it was like an imaginary coin was arcing through the air—heads, tails, stop, keep going.

Clinton ignored it. They were both adults, he wasn't that drunk and he knew what he wanted. Going slow had been for his own benefit, and if he didn't need it anymore—

He stepped in and put his hand on the slope of Neal's chest and kissed his shoulder, then up the side of his neck to his ear. Neal looped his arms around Clinton's waist and stood passively, as if waiting for Clinton's decision. Too careful, too restrained. Clinton felt a bolt of impatience and kissed him recklessly, sliding his tongue into Neal's mouth. Standing as they were, chest to chest, hip to hip, Neal's arousal was obvious, a thick shape pressed against Clinton's erection, and Clinton made himself keep breathing, let the faint tingle of panic turn to excitement. It was a body. He'd been with other bodies before. More importantly, it was Neal, and he was kissing back again, rightly taking Clinton's actions for consent and ramping up, drawing a line down Clinton's spine with his fingers and mapping a horizontal trail above the waistband of his pants.

"Come on," said Clinton, and led him through to the bedroom.

It was dark in there—he'd taken the lamps into the living room, and he didn't want to turn on the overhead light—but the streetlights cast long slanting shadows on the walls, and the lack of clear visuals made Clinton's other senses switch into overdrive. They lay down and undressed each other, and every touch was like a brand, searing its way into Clinton's permanent memory. When they were finally naked, Neal cursed under his breath and held himself over Clinton, and they stroked each other until they were both shaking, until Clinton had lost track of time and place and everything but skin and Neal's hot kisses, Neal's hand on his dick and the words murmured in his ear, across his skin. It was a delirium, but his orgasm, when he finally came, didn't break the fever. He still couldn't stop kissing Neal. He wrapped his hand around Neal's dick and jacked him until he came, gasping, and it was messy and glorious and right.

Afterwards they lay exchanging stupid observations and lazy kisses, until around midnight, when Neal stirred and said, "I should go."

It sounded more rote than convincing, and Clinton rolled him onto his back and leaned over him, seeing the gleam of his smile in the dark. "Stay," said Clinton, and Neal did.


	5. Work your way out

The next week felt like a montage out of a romance movie, the disjointed effect exacerbated by sleep deprivation and a lot of high-quality sex. Neal stayed over five nights out of seven, and Clinton learned that he sang old jazz standards in the shower, but only when he thought no one was listening. That he sometimes got international business calls early in the morning, and if they were from France or Spain, he answered in fluent French or Spanish, but if the caller was Greek, Neal spoke English and had to repeat himself a lot. That Neal was an atheist and didn't want to discuss why. That when they went out, they'd occasionally get comments from passing strangers and those comments were as likely to be about their different races as their being two guys, but also that some of the gay remarks might be positive, especially if Neal were making a point of being charming.

And that given enough time, Neal could win over pretty much anyone if he put his mind to it—which only added to the romance movie vibe, as everyone from waiters to parking attendants smiled at them approvingly.

They watched a couple of the DVDs Clinton had rented—or at least, they started to but got distracted both times after half an hour of good-natured critique on Neal's part, and ended up naked and spent while people were still quipping and shooting each other onscreen.

Neal stopped coming by the office, which was probably a good thing for Clinton's productivity, even if it meant the unit didn't get the benefit of his insights and Clinton didn't get the buzz of seeing him. By Wednesday, a week after the first date, Clinton was running on empty and struggling to pay attention at work. Diana caught him texting during a meeting and followed him back to his desk afterward.

"What's up with you?" she asked. She perched on the edge of Robson's desk, facing him, and grinned. "New girlfriend?"

"Not exactly." Clinton shoved his phone in his pocket and bit the bullet. "New boyfriend, actually."

"Oh really?" Diana's eyebrows shot up, and she looked intrigued. When Clinton hesitated, she added, "Don't make me interrogate you. You know you'd crack in under a minute."

Clinton sat forward and clasped his hands on the blotter. For some reason, telling Diana was harder than telling Peter. Maybe it was that it meant more now, and he didn't want her to pop his bubble. But she'd find out sooner or later. "I'm seeing Neal."

"Neal as in _Caffrey_?" Diana's face was a picture. "You're joking."

"Nope." Clinton faced her down, sure she was going to tease him mercilessly. He was determined not to get embarrassed and to defend Neal if he had to.

But her reaction was thoughtful rather than mischievous. "Huh," she said. "I guess he really does have a type."

Clinton blinked. He couldn't start to imagine what he had in common with Kate Moreau or Alex Hunter. "How do you figure?"

"Sorry. I just meant, after all these years of—" She looked up, past him, and broke off mid-sentence.

"What?" said Clinton.

"Nothing." Diana shook her head and stood up to meet Peter, who'd just shown up. "Hey, boss."

Peter glanced from her to Clinton. "How's it going?"

"Great," said Clinton, fighting and failing to keep a goofy grin from spreading across his face. "It's going great."

"That's good news." Peter's answering smile was warm, like he approved, and man, it was weird to think that technically Neal was Clinton's boss's best friend. It was just as well Peter was such a stand-up guy. On the other hand, his opinion wouldn't mean as much if he weren't. Peter put his hands on his hips, and his expression morphed into a sympathetic grimace. "We haven't got enough evidence for a wiretap on Samson yet, so I'm going to need you in the van with Pearson, probably for the rest of the week."

Clinton nodded, not really minding. Surveillance was tedious, the van always smelled bad and Pearson wasn't the world's greatest agent, but it was undemanding work, maybe all Clinton was good for right now. He just had to keep his eyes open, pay attention to the screen and not spend all his time texting or reliving the night before.

"Diana, if you've got a minute—" Peter led her toward the mezzanine, telling her what information to include in the search warrant applications for the anti-trust lawsuit they were investigating.

Clinton turned back to the files on his desk—all things he'd have to get done before he was banished to the van—and forgot about Diana's reaction to his news.

It came back to him that evening, out of the blue, when Neal was proving he'd overstated his steak-cooking skills during dinner at the Burkes'.

"Maybe I should order a pizza." Clinton opened a window before the smoke alarm went off.

Something flickered across Neal's face and was gone, dispelled by a rueful sigh. Neal dumped the ruined meat in the sink to cool. "Good idea."

Clinton called the pizza place around the corner, and dropped the phone back in its cradle. "Neal?"

"Mmm?" Neal was picking at the salad he'd bought to go with the steak. He stuck a cherry tomato into his mouth.

Clinton came up behind him and nuzzled the back of his neck. Neal's hair always smelled good—almost good enough to justify the half hour he spent in the bathroom every morning "making himself beautiful," as he put it. Clinton hooked his chin over Neal's shoulder and thought about Diana's reaction to the news of them. "How would you describe your type?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Neal, turning and ostentatiously surveying him. "Sexy, smart, observant, good in bed."

"Yeah, yeah." Clinton grinned despite himself. He hadn't been fishing for compliments, but hell if he was going to turn them down.

"Good kisser," said Neal, running his hands down Clinton's sides to his waist. He dug his fingertips in, making Clinton squirm and grab his wrists. "Ticklish." Neal leaned in and kissed his jaw. "How long till the pizza gets here?"

"About half an hour," said Clinton. Before he'd got the words out, Neal was unbuckling his belt and dropping to his knees. Clinton gripped the edge of the counter and hung on.

Afterward, over pizza, his brain still buzzing from the sex, Clinton let the question slip, the one that was always in the back of his mind. "Seriously, why me?"

It wasn't that he was insecure, or that he thought Neal was out of his league, not really; it was just that the start of this had been so unexpected, Neal making a move two weeks ago, after knowing him for so long. Maybe the real question was _Why now?_

Neal looked up from the pizza and gave him a slow warm smile. "I like how you pay attention."

Clinton breathed a laugh and relaxed. That was so typical. Neal had always enjoyed the spotlight.

"How about you?" said Neal, nudging him with his knee. "What's your type?"

Clinton took a bite of pizza and thought about it, whether Neal shared any traits at all with the women he'd dated in the past. He shook his head. "You know, I don't even know anymore."


	6. A Ten Percent Blind Spot

"Italian leather," said Pearson into his phone. "Okay, baby, I hear you. You sure you don't want to come and help me pick them out?"

Clinton smothered a yawn and turned up the volume on his headphones. He was starting to wonder if Pearson's girlfriend Trisha had a job of her own, or if she'd dedicated her life to turning Pearson into the man—and fashion plate—of her dreams. Today she'd called to tell him about a footwear clearance sale in midtown, having apparently decided he needed new shoes. Clinton thought if she were really concerned about him, she should focus on his work performance rather than his clothes.

Thank goodness Neal didn't treat him like a fixer upper. Clinton had been there, done that before, but he liked who he was, and he didn't aspire to be more stylish or fashionable or cultured.

Come to think of it, though, it was surprising Neal hadn't so much as suggested going to fancier restaurants or exhibitions of impenetrable art. Those were the kinds of things Neal Caffrey liked, the things Clinton would've thought he took for granted, especially now he wasn't restricted by his radius, but so far he seemed content to hang out at Clinton's place or the Cambodian restaurant on the corner, to watch bad movies and have sex, and read the Times. They'd played poker twice, once with Louisa, but Neal was a poker genius. He'd won every hand, and the evenings had quickly devolved into showy card tricks and magic tricks and, after Louisa went home, more sex.

Not that Clinton was complaining.

Pearson was talking about gemstones now—something about emeralds versus rubies—and Clinton hoped he hadn't told Trisha that they were staking out a jewelry store suspected of money laundering: she'd probably want Pearson to go over and pick her out some earrings.

Clinton should really have a serious word with Pearson, tell the guy to get on task before Peter noticed how distracted he was, but just as Clinton was working up the energy to say something, his phone buzzed with a text message from Neal. Which was both distracting and enough to make Clinton feel like a hypocrite, so he sat back and replied to Neal, and endured the ongoing Pearson Renovations.

Clinton had never been the type to watch the clock, but these days he couldn't wait to get back to the rest of his life. He scrolled through the messages in his phone and listened to Pearson argue with Trisha about whether the Giants game trumped a cocktail party.

In Clinton's experience with women, once you started sleeping together, that was how it went: the politeness ebbed until both of you felt free to air your expectations and opinions—of each other and the world. Sometimes even ultimatums and demands. And then you'd either find a way to compromise or you'd split. But it wasn't like that with Neal. Neal was unfailingly attentive and accommodating. They never disagreed about anything. It was like he was playing the role of perfect boyfriend. The more Clinton thought about it, the more it bugged him. Not that he wanted Neal to be more like Trisha, no way, but no one could be as easy-going as Neal seemed, not deep down.

It was like Neal was conning him—Clinton couldn't imagine what for—or hiding behind his charm. He definitely used sex as a distraction. But maybe that was just who Neal was. Clinton told himself not to push. It had only been a couple of weeks.

 

*

 

That afternoon, Clinton got called back to the office for a meeting, leaving Pearson in the van with Blake. It wasn't too far, and he decided to walk, to stretch his legs and take advantage of the unseasonably warm weather. He was surprised to notice two gay couples in the street in the space of four city blocks: one couple was holding hands as they walked out of a subway station; the other were standing pressed up against each other, discussing a window display in a bookstore. It was as if the changes in Clinton's life were reflected in the world around him.

He mentioned it to Diana after the meeting, once everyone else had left the conference room. "Is there a gay pride event going on or something?" Even asking made him feel like he was speaking an unfamiliar language.

"Yeah," said Diana, standing up. "It's called your life."

Clinton stopped straightening the stack of files in front of him and looked up at her, confused.

She rolled her eyes. "You know about assumed heterosexuality, right?" At his blank look, she sat down again. "How about confirmation bias?"

"Confirmation bias," said Clinton. He'd taken a couple of psych classes in college. "That's where people only pay attention to data that fits their hypotheses."

"Exactly," said Diana. "And for most straight people, the hypothesis is that everyone is straight. They might make an exception for k.d. lang and RuPaul, but those are _exceptions_. They don't count."

Clinton nodded.

"It's how people can see Christie and me walking down the street holding hands and think, 'Aw, they're such good friends,' or 'They must be sisters.'" She pulled a face. "Can you tell it drives me nuts?"

"So I'm just starting to notice. It's not that there are more gay people around," said Clinton.

Diana cocked an eyebrow. "Crawling out of the woodwork? No."

"Hey, I'm sorry," said Clinton, holding up his hands and trying not to get defensive. It was understandable that she'd get frustrated, if most of the world was screening her relationship out of existence. "I'm still figuring this stuff out."

"It's okay." Diana shrugged and they headed for the door. "Hey, why don't you and Neal come out with Christie and me sometime? We can take you through the basics of Queer Dating 101."

"Sure," said Clinton. "Sounds good." But even as he was saying it, he knew he'd find an excuse not to go. He couldn't say why, but he felt protective of his time with Neal. He didn't want to share it with anyone, or open it up to Diana's ruthless scrutiny.

 

*

 

Apparently Neal didn't share the impulse to keep their time together private. That evening over nachos, he said casually, "Elizabeth invited us to dinner Saturday."

"Okay," said Clinton, because it was the first time Neal had asked for anything. It felt a little like being invited home for dinner with the parents, but he had no problem with that and he liked the Burkes.

Neal reached for his wineglass. "Cool."

Clinton watched him watch TV and wondered what was going on inside his head. He looked relaxed, absorbed in the news broadcast, but as smart as Neal was, Clinton didn't see how CNN could be holding his full attention. Was he biding his time until they had sex? Was he hiding something? Was he bored? Or maybe Clinton was overanalyzing, and Neal was just tired, like Clinton was, from too many late nights together. Clinton's social life had been fragmented by over a decade of working erratic hours. Before this thing with Neal, he'd spent his free evenings online or at the gym, or watching sports on TV. He'd gone to church on Sunday mornings if he hadn't been up too late the night before, and he'd visited his folks once every month or two. A couple of times a year he taught self-defense at a community center in Brooklyn, but other than that and some sporadic dating, that was pretty much his life.

What was Neal's equivalent? Clinton knew he painted sometimes, but not much else. Did he spend his evenings with Mozzie, talking crime and conspiracies? Clinton wanted to know Neal better. Not the Neal he'd worked with for four and a half years, but the Neal who smiled at him like he was something special, who was exciting and elusive and free of his FBI obligations.

"You and Peter are still tight," Clinton said, opening gambit to a conversation where maybe he could dig a little.

But Neal's gaze, when he turn to Clinton, was searching, at odds with his light tone. "And Elizabeth," he said. "If it weren't for them, I wouldn't be here."

Clinton didn't know if Neal meant he'd be in prison, dead or just not in New York. Maybe it was all three. He leaned in and caught Neal's mouth, and Neal responded at once, warm and open.

"I'm glad you are," Clinton told him. It was trite, but he meant it with every cell in his body.


	7. The Other Shoe

Clinton woke late on Saturday. The curtains were only half closed, but the window above his bed was high enough that the wall cast a shadow over the pillows and the top of the covers, so he hadn't been woken by the sun in his eyes. He stretched and rubbed his eyes, and looked up at Neal, who was sitting, bare-chested with one knee bent, watching him.

"Hey." Clinton ran his hand down Neal's leg. "What're you doing?"

"Admiring the view," said Neal, catching Clinton's hand and moving it to the top of his thigh, but not making the gesture sexual. He'd said near the start that anticipation could be almost as hot as the sex itself, and he'd demonstrated that more than once over the last week, teasing them both. But something in the air this morning suggested it might be misdirection this time.

Clinton got up on one elbow and squinted at his face, haloed with late morning sun. "Everything okay?"

"Seems to be." Neal's grip tightened for a moment, and then he moved down the bed till they were eye to eye. "A week and a half. Do you know, this is the longest I've ever seen someone without one of us getting kidnapped or going bankrupt?"

His tone was wry and distant, and there was a curve to his lips, but the words themselves were enough to turn Clinton's view of things on its head. It honestly hadn't occurred to him to think about what they were doing in the context of Neal's past. To think that Neal might need reassurance or that he might be waiting for disaster to strike. He always appeared confident and in control. Too much so—it had to be a front. Clinton could have kicked himself for not figuring that out sooner, but the truth was Neal was the exception to a lot of rules; sometimes it felt like he was wholly self-contained, that normal human foibles didn't apply.

Clinton pulled him close, remembering the long ago wreckage of a plane, and Neal with scraped palms, pale and shell-shocked, being led away in cuffs. Another lifetime, maybe, but it had to have left scars. "That's not going to happen."

Neal wrapped his arms around him and nipped his jaw, then his earlobe. "There's always something—another shoe waiting to drop."

"A sword of Damocles," said Clinton.

"Yeah, that." Neal pulled back, his tension softening into affection, making Clinton's toes curl and his dick harden.

"Not this time." He slid his fingers into Neal's hair and kissed him as if promises were proof.

Neal rolled onto his back, loosening their embrace without breaking it. "Hungry?"

"Not for food," said Clinton. It was a cheesy line and he felt like an idiot, but it made Neal grin, so it was worth it.

Neal took his hand and guided it down his chest, torturously slow. "Figured out your type yet?"

Clinton blinked at his profile, distracted from the muscled belly under his palm. Was there something special about the eleventh day of a relationship, something that broke through Neal's defenses and allowed him to make himself vulnerable? Had Neal heard the silent questions Clinton had been asking the night before? Maybe it was just that it was morning, a lazy Saturday—the first chance they'd had to lie around together since the previous weekend, when they'd been sex-crazed and sweaty, and Clinton had still been figuring out which way was up.

"It's pretty confusing," he said now. "I mean, there's the women I've dated and there's you. I'm not sure I can extrapolate out from such disparate data sets."

Neal rolled his eyes, grinning. "Dork."

"I think you'll find the correct term is 'geek'," said Clinton, as straight-faced as he could. "The thing is, you all don't have that much in common. Except for being hot." He leaned forward and kissed Neal's mouth, lazy and thorough. "Really hot." His hand, in its slow descent, finally encountered pubes and the thick weight of Neal's erection. "You know I like you, right?"

"But?" murmured Neal. He released his hand and pulled Clinton on top of him.

Clinton held himself up and met his gaze. He tried to smile, but he was having a hard enough time breathing, too full of emotions and desire, the incendiary slide of their bodies. "No buts."

Neal's gaze darkened, and his tongue came out to wet his lips. Carried on a tide of feelings, unable to help himself, Clinton kissed him again, kissed his way down his body, this body he was learning head to foot. He took his time, letting Neal revel in the anticipation, working up the courage to try this even if it meant he might make a fool of himself. He shoved the covers aside and settled between Neal's legs and carefully sucked him into his mouth for the first time.

Neal tensed and swore under his breath. He was clearly putting some serious effort into not moving, and Clinton was grateful for it. He wasn't ready for anything ambitious. He took his time, using his hands and his mouth, and man, it was sexier than he'd expected, doing this, feeling Neal's dick throb in response, listening to his breathing speed up. Lost in the musky skin smell and the taste of him. Driving him out of his mind. Neal's hand landed on his shoulder, gripping tight, and Clinton felt connected to him, close in a way he hadn't before. When Neal came, Clinton almost followed just from the pressure of the mattress beneath him and the excitement of getting Neal off, but he managed to hold it, and Neal soon took advantage of that.

Later, when they were lying around, both recovering, Clinton's toes found the tell-tale callous on Neal's ankle, and for once he felt he could ask: "Is it weird, being out of your tracker after all this time? You ever miss it?"

Neal stopped tracing lines on Clinton's upper arm and looked at him, a faint crease between his eyebrows. "No," he said. "It was wearing it that was strange. Always."

"You never got used to it?" Clinton had lost count of the number of times he'd removed and replaced Neal's anklet. It had been impersonal, part of his job. He'd never thought how it must have been for Neal.

Apparently there were a lot of things he'd never really thought about—too busy sitting back and gathering ever more evidence to stop and look at the big picture. Surveillance was a way of life. But he and Neal seemed to have finally reached a place where, if Clinton was stuck for answers, he could ask, and that changed everything.

 

*

 

Neal went home mid-afternoon to change, and Clinton gave his apartment a quick once-over and did some laundry before picking Neal up to drive them to the Burkes' for dinner. Everything felt lighter now, better.

When they arrived, Neal knocked and let them in without waiting for an answer. "Hello?"

Satchmo raised his head from where he was curled up on his mat by the couch, and Neal went over to pat him while Clinton stood in the middle of the room.

Peter came out of the kitchen wearing oven mitts. "Hey, there. El will be down in a minute."

Neal gave Satchmo a last pat, stood up and set the two bottles of wine he'd brought on the dining table. "Isn't there a game on tonight? I thought we'd have to drag you away from the television."

"Taping it," said Peter. "I'm on kitchen duty."

Neal grinned, raising his eyebrows at the oven mitts. "Pot roast?"

Peter shrugged easily. "One day this old dog will learn a new trick."

"You've been saying that for four years," said Neal. He fished a corkscrew out of a drawer in the sideboard and started opening one of the bottles. "You're not getting any younger, old man."

Peter's eyes crinkled at the corners. "He was a lot more polite when I could send him back to prison," he told Clinton. "Shame it had to end."

"He doesn't mean that," said Elizabeth from behind them, before Clinton could figure out whether to retort. The Burkes and Neal were obviously comfortable with their back and forth, but it was the first time Clinton had seen Neal and Peter together since he and Neal started dating, and digs at Neal's ex-con status that used to seem harmless or amusing now made Clinton bristle on his behalf.

Neal glanced at him and seemed to recognize that. He handed him a glass of red, said, "It needs to breathe," and deftly changed the subject, complimenting Elizabeth on her dress and telling her about a new shipment of wine from New Zealand.

Peter retreated to the kitchen to finish cooking, and Clinton sipped the rich mellow wine, despite Neal's instruction to wait, and gradually relaxed.

Dinner was a more formal affair than the regular Fridays with Mozzie and Yvonne, and there was a weird vibe, as if everyone were feeling their way. As if they hadn't all known each other forever. Or maybe Clinton was just self-conscious about being out as Neal's partner in front of Peter and his wife. Openly bisexual. It felt unnerving and utterly normal at the same time.

Neal seemed completely at ease with that aspect of the occasion, treating Clinton as his date without making a big deal about it. Clinton wondered how long he'd been out to the Burkes, and made a mental note to ask later, when they were alone.

"Did you hear Yvonne's decided it's time to introduce Mozzie to Robert?" said Elizabeth, adding to Clinton, "Robert is Yvonne's son. He's nearly twelve."

"Ooh, serious," said Neal, his eyes lit with amusement. "Moz might finally get to be 'Uncle Mozzie'."

"Looks like." Elizabeth smiled back at him. "You know, I never would have predicted them getting together, but they really seem to have hit it off. I hope Robert takes to him."

"Mozzie's good with kids." Neal sent Peter a sly glance. "He was running a training program when I first met him."

Peter shook his head in theatrical exasperation, and Elizabeth laughed and patted his arm. "It's okay, honey. Mozzie is a reformed character now," she said. "Eccentric but lawful."

"Don't let him hear you say that," said Neal, pointing his fork at her. "He's pretty attached to his reputation."

"He's not the only one," said Peter, directing a meaningful look at Neal, who grinned and reached for his glass.

"Would you have predicted us?" Clinton asked Elizabeth, curious.

Elizabeth tilted her head and regarded him and Neal. "Maybe, if I'd known you were open to it," she said. "I suppose I should have guessed. Neal has very good taste, and he's always been irresistible."

"Excuse me?" said Peter, affecting jealousy.

Elizabeth winked at Clinton, and he grinned back, enjoying the flattery on his own behalf and Neal's.

"Dating was complicated before," said Neal. He looked down at his plate, his eyelashes dark against his cheeks. "The radius, the anklet. Not everyone's comfortable with Big Brother keeping tabs." He nudged his knee against Clinton's under the table. "Of course, you _are_ Big Brother, so—"

Clinton nudged back. Would he have gone out with Neal before, even if the FBI had permitted it? It was hard to say. Neal had been one of the good guys for years now, but it was only since his parole ended that there'd been proof his new allegiance was voluntary and enduring, not just the result of Peter's careful management. And independence suited Neal, allowed him to be his own man. If he'd asked six months or a year ago—probably not. Of course, if Clinton had known then what he knew now, he might not have been able to help himself. Irresistible was right.

Peter started refilled everyone's wineglasses, and Clinton covered his with his hand. "I'm driving."

"Fair enough." Peter put down the bottle, picked up his glass and drank. "So, Neal, I hear there's a Manet exhibition starting next week at MoMA."

"That's the word on the street," agreed Neal. "I thought impressionism wasn't your thing."

"Maybe not, but it's one of yours," said Peter, ignoring the jibe. "Just wondering if you've been painting lately." He sounded like he was trying to keep it casual and jokey, but it made Neal frown.

"Really, Peter?" said Neal, shooting a quick glance at Clinton. "Now?"

Peter held up his hands. "I can't check your GPS anymore; I have to ask."

Clinton bit his tongue and decided not to intervene. Peter wasn't known for his social finesse, and he and Neal had worked closely for four years; it made sense that there'd be some adjustment now Peter wasn't Neal's boss anymore. They were friends—almost family—and it was up to them to sort it out; Clinton's sticking his oar in would probably only make it worse, like trying to intercede in longstanding issues between a father and son.

Elizabeth gave him an apologetic smile, as if she'd reached the same conclusion.

Neal sat back in his chair. "Trust but verify," he said, adding to Clinton, "It's a sign of affection—that's what I keep telling myself."

"It's a sign that I respect your talents and abilities," said Peter, apparently trying to mollify him.

"Yeah," said Neal, skeptically. He was silent a moment, and Elizabeth was clearly about to come to his rescue when he shrugged. "I've been good. And hey, if anything goes missing, chances are I'll have an impeccable alibi."

The remark lacked his trademark lightness, and Clinton looked at him, surprising a complicated expression on his face, directed at Peter—fond and resentful, and weirdly intense. Half a second later, it was gone, the canvas smoothed blank, and Clinton ignored the bolt of jealousy in his chest, certain that he'd mistaken Neal's umbrage for something more personal. Maybe now Clinton was with a guy, instead of assuming heterosexuality, he was projecting same sex attraction everywhere he looked. That idea made him picture Elizabeth kissing Diana, which was so wrong and inappropriate that he had to stare at his plate and think about the surveillance van until he was sure he wouldn't blush.

"That's enough, boys," said Elizabeth firmly, making Clinton wonder guiltily if she could read his mind, but she was talking to Peter and Neal. "Time for dessert. Honey, could you give me a hand."

The Burkes cleared the table and, once they'd left the room, Neal touched the back of Clinton's hand. "Sorry about that. Peter's kind of over-invested in my being rehabilitated."

"Yeah, I know." Clinton bumped his knee against Neal's. "I'm pretty invested in that too." The consequences, if Neal were to fall off the wagon and stage a heist or forge a painting, would be awful and far-reaching for all of them, but Clinton believed in him. Trusted him.

And luckily his concern didn't seem to chafe Neal the way Peter's did. "Yeah," he said, his smile warm and private.

Clinton wanted to kiss him so bad he nearly forgot where they were. He licked his lip and started to lean in, but a phone rang on the sideboard, startling in the quiet. Elizabeth came out of the kitchen to grab it, a spoon in one hand.

She looked at the screen. "Honey, it's the NYPD."

Peter was backing through the door after her, carrying a cake and a jug of sweet-smelling sauce. He put them on the table and took the phone from her. "This is Burke."

His side of the conversation was brief. When he hung up, he sighed and rubbed his face. "There's been a break-in at Samson's jewelry store." That was the store Clinton had been staking out with Pearson for part of the week. Saul Samson was suspected of money laundering, but they hadn't been able to gather enough evidence to move on it, and developments in a trading scam case had pulled all the White Collar unit's resources back to the office on Friday. "It's probably not related to the case but I've got to check it out," Peter continued now. "Jones?"

"I'll drive." Clinton stood up.

So did Neal. "I'm coming too."

"And so the evening came to an abrupt end," said Elizabeth, cutting herself a generous slice of cake. "Okay, but honey, if you're gone more than an hour, Satch and I are watching the game without you."

"Just don't tell me the score." Peter kissed the top of her head. "Sorry, hon."

Neal and Clinton bid her goodnight, and the three of them hurried out to the car.

 

*

 

The police were waiting when they arrived at the store. "A cab driver called it in, said he was driving down the street and noticed lights moving around inside," a uniform told Peter. "Whoever it was, they bypassed the alarm. We've contacted the security company, but their monitoring staff managed to miss the whole incident—"

"Giants game," said Peter.

"Right," she said. "No one's been able to raise the owner."

"Any security footage?" Neal indicated the camera over the door with a tilt of his chin.

The uniform nodded. "The camera transmits directly to the security company. They're sending us a disk."

"Okay, thanks," said Peter. "You guys finish setting up the cordon. We're going to take a look around."

The store was dark. Careful not to leave prints, Clinton crunched his way over broken glass to a backroom behind the counter and found the light switches for the store. When he came back, he saw that most of the display cases were smashed and empty. A few trays of watches remained in the cases near the door, but otherwise it looked like the burglars had cleaned the place out. But Neal nixed that.

"Why smash the cases?" he said. "All the high-end merchandise will be in a time-lock vault from closing till the next morning. That's standard practice."

"Maybe Samson didn't follow standard practice," said Peter. He pulled a Maglite out of his pocket and examined the damaged cases more carefully, including around the locks. "Or maybe the thieves didn't know about it."

"They knew enough to short circuit the alarm," said Neal.

Clinton went into the backroom again to examine the vault. It looked untouched. "There's no sign of tampering with the safe," he reported.

Neal was behind the polished wooden counter where the cash register sat. He crouched down. Something had caught his attention. "Maybe they weren't after jewelry."

Peter and Clinton went to see what he was looking at.

"See these marks?" Neal pointed to scratches on the drawer of the cash register. "They're fresh. Someone was trying to break it open, but this would have been empty too."

"And if you're after cash, you go to a 7-Eleven or a liquor store," Clinton pointed out. "Jewelry purchases are all check or credit card."

"Right," said Neal. "Exactly."

Peter handed him a pair of gloves, and Neal put them on and felt along the bottom of the register, and then under the top of the counter. Something clicked, and a small panel sprang open in the back of the counter.

Neal crouched down to investigate. "Gotta love a secret compartment."

"What's in there?" Peter shone his flashlight into the small cavity and brought out a 9mm handgun and a small accounts book. "Want to bet this contains evidence of money laundering?"

"I'm guessing our burglars knew exactly what they were after, just not how to find it," said Neal.

"Maybe some of Samson's associates noticed the surveillance and decided to take matters into their own hands," said Clinton. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Maybe." Neal watched Peter slide the gun and the book into evidence bags. "Is it admissible?"

"We're here legally," said Peter. He patted Neal's shoulder and straightened up. "Good work, Neal."

Neal grinned up at him, unguarded and brilliant. His jaw and cheekbone were illuminated by Peter's flashlight, in addition to the overhead incandescents, and Clinton's heart skipped a beat. He wasn't imagining it this time, that intense affection tinged with longing. Neal's feelings for Peter were far from familial.

Clinton suddenly remembered joking about the two of them with Lauren Cruz, years ago when Neal first joined the unit. Cruz had said it was cute how Neal was crushing on Peter like a puppy dog, and Clinton had played along, never dreaming it might be true. Assuming heterosexuality. Had Cruz known? Diana must, he realized with a jolt; that was what she'd meant about Neal's having a type—not Kate and Alex, but Peter. FBI agents. What Mozzie would call "Suits". _Dammit._ Who else knew? Who else had stood by while Clinton made a fool of himself, thinking Neal cared about him? The rest of the White Collar unit? Elizabeth?

 _Don't let him take advantage of you,_ Peter had said. Did he know?

Clinton liked Peter, and he'd been loyal to him for over a decade, but all those years of professional respect and mutual trust meant jack in light of the wealth of emotion on Neal's face—emotion that Clinton was pretty sure Neal didn't know he was revealing.

And then it passed, replaced by triumph. It had only been a second or two, but Clinton couldn't explain it away this time. What was known couldn't be forgotten. And where did that leave him, but back on the outside, with nothing but pride. It was over.


	8. What we have

Clinton stepped back from the jewelry store counter and pulled himself together. He was humiliated and pissed off, and he'd have to confront Neal about it at some stage, but making a scene in front of Peter wasn't an option, especially given they were working and there were police outside. He waited until Neal and Peter turned away, and quickly and quietly left. "Something's come up and I've got to go," he told a uniform who was still crisscrossing the windows with yellow tape. "Can you make sure those other agents inside get a ride?"

His phone rang while he was driving home, and he let it go to voicemail. It was too soon. His brain was buzzing, replaying things Neal had said, things he hadn't—all of them spelling out a sentence Clinton had been too stupid to see. _If it weren't for Peter, I wouldn't be here,_ Neal had told him. That took on a whole new meaning now.

He parked in his usual spot and looked at his phone. As well as the missed call, there was a voicemail message and two texts, all from Neal. Clinton pressed his lips together and sent a brief, neutral reply, saying he'd see Neal tomorrow.

A couple of seconds later, the phone rang again. Clinton powered it off without answering and went inside. He was going to lie on his couch in the dark and get his head together. Wallow some. Maybe have a few beers. But his plans were sidelined when he saw Louisa's apartment door standing open.

He knocked. "Louisa? Everything okay?"

She came running, in sweatpants and a forest green tee. "Ha! I knew you couldn't walk on by an open door. I need your technical expertise."

Clinton leaned in her doorway and made himself pay attention. "What is it?"

"My Skype is broken," she said. "I think Andre messed with my settings or something. The connection keeps dropping out after a few seconds. Help? I rebooted but it didn't help, and I need to talk to my mom."

Computer support was the last thing Clinton felt like doing, but he'd helped her out before, and it was impossible to say no to Louisa's big-eyed hopeful expression, even now. He sighed. "Show me."

She took him through to where her laptop was set up on the small kitchen table. "No Neal tonight?"

"No," said Clinton. "No more Neal. It was a mistake."

"Didn't seem that way to me." Louisa leaned against the counter, watching him check the laptop's configuration. "What happened?"

Clinton didn't look up. "You want me to fix this or not?"

In the corner of his eye, he saw her mime zipping her lips shut. Good. The last thing he needed was her well-meaning advice, when she didn't have any idea what was going on. He checked her Skype preferences, and it was actually kind of soothing, focusing on something that wasn't him or Neal or how stupid he felt.

Someone started knocking out in the hallway, but it wasn't on Louisa's door, so it was easy to ignore.

"Okay," said Clinton, pushing his chair back. "That should do it. Tell Andre not to mess with your settings next time."

"Thanks, Clint. Really. I owe you." She pushed off from the counter and peered at the computer screen. "You want a beer?"

The knocking outside stopped.

"I'm fine," Clinton told her. "You need to talk to your mom, remember? I'll see you later." He took his time walking to her door, and when he opened it the hallway was empty.

That shouldn't have been disappointing, but it was. He hadn't thought Neal would give up that easy. He let himself into his apartment, already planning a shower and an early night. Wallowing would only make him feel worse. Maybe if he slept long enough, it would all turn out to be a dream. Except—

Except Neal was standing by the couch, looking at him, concern on his face. "Hey."

Relief was sharp and overwhelming and _wrong_. Clinton shoved it aside and shut the door behind him. "How'd you get in?"

Neal shrugged. Right. Stupid question. "Clint." He came over and stopped barely a foot away, well within reach. His eyes were dark and serious. "Clinton. What happened?"

He didn't know. How could he? "You and Peter," said Clinton, and then realized that could mean anything. "You're in love with him."

It hurt to say it, and the tide of stupidity and humiliation rushed back, making him angry.

But it was his words, not his anger, that stopped Neal in his tracks. "Wait, this is about Peter?"

Clinton frowned. "What did you think it was about?"

Neal waved that aside. "You didn't know." He narrowed his eyes and stepped closer. "How could you not know? Everybody knew!" He said it with a faint bitterness that clearly indicated how much he hated that. "I thought you'd—" He tilted his head and gave a flicker of a shrug. "—factored that in. Isn't that why you told him about us?"

"Is it why you didn't?" Clinton shot back, stung. Even Neal thought he was stupid for not figuring it out sooner. He went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, and when he turned, Neal was right there.

"Clint—"

"I thought you were partners," said Clinton. "Friends. I didn't think you—"

"We are," Neal interrupted. "Listen to me. Peter is very happily married to Elizabeth, who is also my friend. And even if he wasn't, Peter is Peter. I have—it's like a roulette wheel of feelings for him. But I don't want to be with him, not anymore. Not like this." He shifted his weight, and the corner of his mouth turned up. "I mean, God, can you imagine? I'd be looting the Guggenheim within a week in self-defense."

Clinton folded his arms and refused to share the joke. Neal couldn't fix this with charm. The math was simple: if Neal had feelings for Peter, that made Clinton second best. Not only a consolation prize, but one who was too blind to know it.

"I mean, I'm not saying you're easy," continued Neal softly. "Half the time I've got no idea what's going on in there." He pressed a finger lightly to Clinton's temple, till Clinton pulled away. Neal shoved his hands in his pockets. "You sit back and you watch everything, and every so often there's a tiny hint of what you're feeling. But I want to find out. I wouldn't have started this if I didn't."

"You started this because I'm your type," said Clinton. It came out like an accusation, which was pretty much how it felt. The idea of being a type, an outline, a row of ticks on a checklist—it made him feel hollow and invisible. He'd already wasted too much of his life being invisible. "I'm not Peter."

"I know you're not." There was an edge of frustration to it. "I don't want Peter. That was another lifetime, I swear."

Clinton shook his head. It didn't count as another lifetime when you were still hanging around the guy. The guy who was also Clinton's boss. The entire situation was tangled up and embarrassing, and Clinton wanted to be free of it all, to go back to the plain, dull existence he'd had before, without this molten sense of betrayal burning inside him.

"Seriously?" said Neal. A muscle moved in his jaw, and he sounded almost incensed. "After all this?"

"I'm only just starting to understand what 'all this' was," Clinton reminded him. He put his glass of water on the counter, untouched, and went back to the living room, where he threw himself onto the couch and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

Neal followed, sat at the other end of the couch and looked at him. Clinton couldn't understand why he hadn't given up and left yet. "Listen," said Neal. "I can't change how I felt. And I can't—do you want me to end my friendship with Peter and Elizabeth?"

The question seemed to fall into the room like a pebble into a lake, sending out ripples. Clinton knew how much it must be costing him to ask. Too much. It wasn't like Neal could help how he felt. "No."

"If that's what you need—" said Neal.

"No, I want you to—" Clinton looked at him, gorgeous and earnest, watching him intently. The words trailed off.

"What?" said Neal, soft again, like he was trying to charm the answer out of him.

But Clinton couldn't say, _I want you to love me for me. I want you to see me._ Those weren't things you could ask for. Either they were there or they weren't. He looked down at his hands. "I want you to prove this whole thing wasn't a con."

Neal flinched. Clinton could see the hurt, see him wanting to get up and walk out, but he stayed. He twisted in his seat, hitching one knee up so he could face Clinton square on. "How?" he asked harshly. "How exactly do you want me to prove it? You want a guarantee?"

Clinton bit his lip, guilt warring with residual pride. Trust had always been important to Neal, but he was still here, still trying to work this out. If he could stick around and try, so could Clinton.

"Maybe you want to set up surveillance," Neal was saying. "Call someone in to audit our relationship."

He was talking about their relationship like he believed in it. Maybe that was evidence. When it came to love, there weren't many objective, verifiable facts. Clinton looked over and met Neal's gaze, bright with exasperation. "Neal," said Clinton. "Why are you still here? Why didn't you just walk?"

"Because this is where I want to be," said Neal, as plain and simple as the truth, and Clinton believed him. It was reassuring and terrifying, and Clinton reached for him, met him halfway and kissed him, pouring his heart into it, all the need that had crept up on him over the last weeks, that had driven him from anger to despair, and finally here, to hope. Neal answered all of it, pulled him close and held him tightly. "Because you," he murmured in Clinton's ear, dragging him down so they lay the length of the couch. "Your voice, your smile, the way you put ideas together. The way you see me." He pressed his face to the side of Clinton's head, and Clinton closed his eyes, an ache in his throat that he couldn't express. He clasped the back of Neal's neck, rubbed the soft skin behind his ear. "And you have a great body," added Neal. "I mean, really, those FBI suits don't do you justice."

Clinton breathed a laugh, still unsteady but getting there, feeling better. He pulled back just enough to look at him.

Neal's was expression serious. "Neither of us are kids. This isn't first love, or second love. But it's real. It's what we have."

There was no doubting his sincerity. "Okay," said Clinton, and it was like jumping off a cliff. A leap of faith.

Neal touched his face, his thumb brushing Clinton's cheek. "Okay?"

"It's real," said Clinton, pulling him close again, feeling strong arms wrap around him in return. "I'm going to hold you to that."


	9. Epilogue (one month later)

June and her granddaughter were in the parlor when Clinton let himself into the house. He'd been for a run in the park and was dripping sweat, so he didn't stop to say hi, just called a greeting and ran upstairs to Neal's room with his gym bag.

Neal was painting, working thick dollops of oily blue and white onto a canvas set up on an easel near the French doors. The picture showed fishing boats and some seagulls, buildings reflected in the choppy water. Clinton didn't recognize it, but he had a feeling it was a copy. Neal was in a white tee and old pajama pants that rode low on his hips. He had a dark paint smear on his wrist, yellow on his fingers. He looked up, smiling. "Hey."

"Hey." Clinton dropped his gym bag by the door, helped himself to a bottle of water from the refrigerator and went to kiss him hello. His chin was scratchy and unshaven. Clinton pulled away slowly and stood back to view the painting. "Looks good."

Neal gave him an amused glance and Clinton shrugged, grinning. They both knew he was about as discerning as June's twelve-year-old granddaughter, when it came to art.

"Looks good to me," he clarified. He wiped his forehead with the hem of his t-shirt. "Man, I need a shower."

"I was just thinking of taking a break," said Neal. He dropped his brush in a jar and put the palette on the table, on some newspaper. "Want company?"

"Always," said Clinton. "Missed you last night."

"You need to get promoted," Neal told him, grabbing a couple of towels and following him into the bathroom. "Less time in the surveillance van."

"It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it." Clinton wasn't in any great hurry to climb the federal ladder; from where he sat, the next rung up looked like a whole lot of politics and paperwork, and besides, he liked working with Peter, surveillance duty notwithstanding. "Anyway, Pearson's finally getting the message, so that's something."

Clinton had sat the guy down a couple of weeks ago and told him to get his life under control before his shit hit the professional AC. It had taken a while to sink in, but with Clinton pushing him, he might become a team player yet.

"No more _Days of Our Lives_ phone calls to listen to? Poor you," said Neal, turning on the water. The old plumbing at June's was temperamental, despite repeated plumber visits, but Neal had the knack.

Clinton toed off his running shoes and stripped out of his clothes. "No fancy coffee or pastries, either." He stepped into the shower and Neal's embrace, and pretty much immediately lost track of whatever they were talking about, in the hot slide of running water and skin on skin. "Hi."

Neal smiled against his mouth, and trailed his hands down Clinton's sides to his hips. "How much time have you got?"

"I'm meeting Christie and Mozzie at one-thirty," said Clinton, leaning into him. "I still think this is going to be weird." He'd been to a couple of games with Christie before, while Neal and Diana checked out the latest art exhibitions, but this was the first time Mozzie had decided to join them. "Does Mozzie even like sports?"

"Not particularly—or crowds—but apparently Robert is a Knicks fan," said Neal. "It'll be fine. Christie likes kids, and Mozzie will get brownie points with Yvonne."

"And me?" said Clinton, pushing him gently against the wall. "What do I get?"

Neal winced when his back hit the cool tile, but he was getting most of the shower spray and he recovered quickly. He widened his stance and pulled Clinton after him. "My gratitude," he said. "Redeemable for sexual favors."

"Well, in that case—" Clinton soaped his hand and slipped it between them, started stroking Neal, loving the way his head fell back against the wall, exposing the long line of his throat in the steam. Clinton licked up to his jawline, closing his eyes against the spray, and nuzzled behind his ear. "Love you."

He slowed his hand, squeezing just right, the way Neal liked, and Neal shuddered and slung his arm around Clinton's neck, apparently needing assistance to stay upright. "Oh God," he groaned. "Just—yeah—" He groped for Clinton's dick to return the favor, and Clinton locked his knees and braced his free arm against the wall of the shower, gasping as Neal's hand closed around him. Each caress created a twist of excitement, hotter and tighter than the last, coiling at the base of his spine, tightening his balls.

"Come on," said Neal, almost panting, "give it to me." And apparently that was all it took, these days. Clinton pressed his face to Neal's shoulder and came, with Neal's hand firm and possessive on his dick, and Neal's voice warm in his ear.

Neal groaned under his breath and pulsed in Clinton's grip, pulling Clinton down to kiss him messily as his orgasm took hold. They leaned on each other for a moment, catching their breath. Then the plumbing made an ominous clunking sound.

"We've got about thirty more seconds of hot water," Neal predicted, reaching for the soap.

Clinton turned one-eighty, getting the side that'd been away from the shower head wet, and stole the soap from him. "No rest for the wicked."

"Or the reformed," said Neal, sticking his head under the spray. "I'm done." He stepped out of the shower, and Clinton washed quickly, and turned off the faucets just as the water turned icy.

Neal handed him a towel, and they dried off and went back through to Neal's room to dress. Clinton would just as happily have dragged Neal to bed and hugged for a while, maybe had a second round when they were ready for it, but there were plans to be carried out, people to meet. And there was always tomorrow.

He took a clean shirt from his drawer in Neal's dresser and put it on. "Five-thirty," he said. "Madison Square Park."

"And then dinner," said Neal. "Social time. And then we go back to your place and do that again, only slower and maybe lying down."

"You've got a deal." Clinton shrugged into his jacket and rummaged in his gym bag for his car keys. "Okay, I'll see you later. Have fun at the art thing."

"Have fun with the sports thing," said Neal, mocking him gently. He followed him to the door and kissed him goodbye. "Love you. See you later."

Clinton jogged downstairs, still buzzing, full of satisfaction and anticipation—for the day, the evening and the year ahead. He waved goodbye to June and the kid, and headed out, thinking about leaps of faith, and how sometimes, maybe, if you were lucky, you just kept falling.

 

END


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